Obituary Of A Millionaire
by Frieda van den Huetten
Summary: Set in 1930. Everybody's life is about to change, when Cal, impoverished and under a false name, is welcomed as a guest in Rose and Jack's home.
1. Introduction

**A/N: A thousand thanks to DreamUpAReality who has agreed to beta this story for me. Hurray!**

**Introduction**

It was a hot July day in 1931 when I met Caledon Hockley for the first and—like I had believed back then—last time of my life. I still remember that the barometric column in our house had almost risen to 100° Fahrenheit by the time I left in the morning, anxious not to be late for my appointment or my "interview with the devil" as my girlfriend used to call it ironically. She was kind enough to accompany me. "No use to try and talk you out of it, right?"

I shook my head and she smiled despite herself. "You're the craziest person I've ever known," she concluded and bid me goodbye with a kiss on the cheek.

I felt chilly when I entered the cool basement where he was already waiting. Cal — for some reason I always thought of him "Cal" never as "Caledon" or "Mr. Hockley", even before I got to know him — sat opposite of me in a bare room that was empty besides his chair, my wheelchair and the low table between us. There were no windows. All light came from a single electric bulb dangling from the ceiling. It flickered a little, but the light was strong enough to read a newspaper or a book.

Cal's forearms rested on the table, hands firmly clasped. His sharp face looked hardened, almost indifferent. It was hard to tell any true emotional reaction from it. At first glance, he seemed rather arrogant and blasé as he sat there at the other side of the table. His black eyes studied me ceaselessly and coolly."Why did you come here?" he asked.

"To hear your side of the story."

"Pfft. I'm sure they've already told you more than enough about me." No need to ask who he meant by that.

"Oh, they did," came my answer. Was my mind playing tricks on me or did he actually look pleased at this? Was he happy that he was still a subject of conversation in the Dawson household, no matter if they talked well of him or not? "I know what they say about you, but I've never been one to just adopt other people's views. Sorry, that's just the way I am."

I watched his expressions as carefully as he watched mine. More vexed than soothed by my inquisitive nature, he raised his eyebrows with contempt. I could tell he didn't think much of my claim of neutrality. But when he did speak again, it was in a very different vain: "Do _they_ know you're here?"How many mixed emotions one little pronoun could convey! There lay much annoyance and disdainfulness in his "they", but I was positive I detected a weird sort of appreciation and even a strange desire of belongingness. At least that's what I thought. I knew I could have been wrong.

I considered this for a moment and then gave a plain and truthful reply. "They do."

"And they didn't warn you?"

"Sure they did. They told me to stay away from you as far as possible."

"But here you are."

"Here I am."

Cal leaned back, forcing a squeak from the ramshackle chair he was sitting on. His eyes, for the first time today, ended the scrupulous inspection of my traits and set on the chalky white wall behind me. If he was pondering what to reply or pondering whether or not he cared enough to reply at all was impossible to tell.

Finally, he bent forward on his seat—to resume our conversation, I suspected. However, he didn't say anything before he had looked about the room to check if we were in fact unwatched and unheard.

What a strange kind of watchfulness! I wondered if he hadn't yet realized he'd been forever relieved from the burden of a good reputation, after everything that had happened! I had no time to be perplexed though, because shortly afterwards, Cal began to talk.

"You said you came here to hear my side of the story. To be perfectly honest with you, I don't think there is any use in talking you." He made a pause for effect. "The only reason I will comply with your request is that I, alas, don't have anything better to do. But keep one thing in mind. I don't like being interrupted. Or asked questions. I'll tolerate you in the same room with me if you talk as little as possible. Come to think of it, I'd prefer it if you said nothing at all until you heard me to the end."

He paused again, this time to take a sip of water from a glass.

"So, where do I begin? I'm sure you ask yourself how I came to Santa Monica, of all places. I know you must believe that I had a precise idea of what I was looking for. After all, why would a man like me travel hundreds of miles at random? But the goal of my journey was not to reach the far shores of Troy to reclaim what I thought was mine. No idea of fortune or glory, however doubtful, fueled my walk. It was its start, rather than its end, that defined the course of my journey! I knew that a storm was gathering and all I had in mind was to escape before all hell breaks loose. The moment I realized where I had ended up I was just as stupefied as you are now when I tell you that I came her by chance."

As a matter of fact, I didn't believe any of this. I did, however, consider it smarter not to show it. He probably would have continued anyway, regardless of whether or not I had let on about my incredulity. Then I remembered my earlier statement about me making my own judgments, and felt frustration and embarrassment rise in me when I realized that this wouldn't—couldn't—work out quite as planned. Looking at Caledon Hockley with the eye of a neutral observer? Impossible!

He stopped talking and shot me a superior glance as if he wanted to say, 'I see through my flimsy pretense.' I did my best to return his gaze unflinchingly. The silent intermission lasted only a brief moment and when it was over, he continued his speech as if he had never interrupted it.

**A/N: Liked it? Hated it? Leave a review and speak your mind!**


	2. Stranded

**Stranded**

When the Great Crash hit Wall Street, I found myself in a precarious financial situation. Everybody had suspected – and with good cause – that the shares would rise even more and I was no exception. I cannot, however, stress enough that I _could_ have survived this crisis as a rich man. I'm an Ivy League graduate and I know one thing or two about the functioning of markets. I knew that _in the long term_, the shares would rise again.

All I needed was someone to give me a loan to support me and my family until the worst was over. And could there be anyone more adequate for this service than my own brother whose shares hadn't plummeted quite as much as mine?

But Nathan Hockley Jr. had other plans. At first, he complied with my requests – but gave me only a meager loan, mind you! –that could hardly cover the expenses of the household and my sons' education. Secretly, he was biding his time for revenge. And then, during the height of recession when I needed it the most, needed it for the sake of my own sanity, he refused to further financially support me.

He knew that my family's fate rested on a thin branch that was soon going to break. He could be certain that no bank in the country would lend me money. With the world in the grip of recession, they wouldn't let themselves be duped by my good name. They'd demand bankable collateral, which I couldn't provide, not anymore. On the contrary, I was already heavily indebted!

Mistreated and betrayed at the hands of my own kinship, I made my way home. Terrible thoughts started circulating in my head. I sensed that the humiliation that I have suffered was only a foretaste of what was to come when the wind had carried the smell of my misfortune to the vultures. There is only so much that a man can bear without losing his mind!

How is one supposed to deal with a hopeless situation like this? I have never allowed myself to think that it would come to this, yet it didn't take me more than a few hours to make up my mind. With trembling hands, I rummaged through the drawer of my desk until I got hold of my pistol. Then I left the house and crossed the lawn, carrying the gun in my hand like it was the evening journal. I walked uphill until I reached the woods that bordered on my property.

It was a peaceful place, like another world. I deeply inhaled the wet, mossy air and listened to the songs of the birds, the murmuring of the river that ran only a couple of yards away... How little I had cherished these things before!

I stopped before the mansion disappeared behind the luscious green foliage and looked back at what was now - _but would all too soon no longer be_ - mine. Under the crisp blue afternoon sky, the building looked more imposing and cruel than ever. I still remember how cold it felt when I pressed the barrel to my temple.

I closed my eyes and started to count. _Ten... nine... eight... seven... six... five... _

It was the honk of a car pulling into the driveway that brought me back to my senses. My wife and two youngest daughters were returning early from a trip to Philadelphia. I took down the gun and watched them through the leafage. The chauffeur opened the car doors for them and they seized his hand and stepped out with grace. My wife wore a short-sleeved white summer dress and a small hat. A true lady, dressed_ à la mode_. She had never been a natural beauty, but she knew how to make herself presentable.

Approximately 100 yards of well-groomed lawn lay between me and my wife and kids. Back from where I stood they looked as tiny and unreal as the scenery on a model railroad platform. Then my butler left the house and walked over to my wife to greet her. Meanwhile, the two young girls started chasing each other around the car, visibly enjoying being on their feet again after the long ride.

I focused my attention back on my wife who was still standing next to the car. She seemed to have struck up a conversation with the butler. He was explaining something to her and she smiled, adjusting the hat on her brunette hair. Suddenly, he pointed to the woods and both turned their gaze in my direction.

This caught me off guard. I knew they couldn't see me; the bushes and trees were hiding me well. The butler must have seen me walking up. Had he seen the gun, too?

Disgusted at myself, I flung the pistol to the ground. A shot went off as it landed on the pebbly bank of the nearby river. I startled violently, and so did my wife and kids when they heard the sound a fraction of a second later. The girls froze in mid-movement. The servants were paralyzed with shock. My wife instinctively ducked her head and pulled the girls close to her to protect them. The birds had stopped singing and for a moment the only sound I heard was the blood pulsating in my head.

Then a curious thing happened. A mad idea - the sort that would only nest in the most desperate of minds – came to me with the force of a celestial vision. What if I just disappeared? Went to a pleasant and faraway place where no one knew my face and where I could spend the rest of my days in peaceful oblivion? When they wouldn't find me in the morning, they'd count one and one together and think me dead. The discovery of my legacy of debts would only enforce their assumption.

Realization went through me like a jolt: I did not have to die!

Hastily and without turning back I made my way through the woods. Tree branches were tearing at my clothes and skin. I had to stop several times to rest against the trunk of a tree, shaken with near-hysteric fits of laughter. At midnight, I arrived at the Pittsburgh central station. The last train that left the station that day was going west.

What followed were weeks of traveling in crowded train compartments and nights in shabby hotels. I spare you the details. After I had spent all the money I had taken with me, I traded in my watch, cloak and marriage band. Whenever I passed by gentlemen or ladies dressed in fine clothes, I turned away my face to avoid recognition. I wasn't one of them any longer. I was a nobody who had less and less money in the tattered pockets of his once fashionable clothes.

In Santa Monica, my journey came to an end. I hadn't spent more than two days in one place for more than a month and was simply too exhausted to go on. Or maybe I thought that the sea air would do me good; I don't remember exactly.

I rented a room in a less privileged part of town. It didn't take me long to figure out why it was the cheapest one in that poor excuse for an apartment building. The sun beat down on the roof so mercilessly that I was bathed in sweat long before noon. It seemed to me like the heat of the whole building - the steam from the oversized cooking pots of the Chinese family on the second floor, the burning tip of the landlord's cigarette - streamed right into the attic where I lived.

Sometimes, the owner of this dump banged his fists against the door, claiming that I still owed him money. I couldn't stand this porky chain-smoking bastard, so whenever I heard him stomping up the stairs, I propped the chair up against the door and waited until he got tired of knocking. But most of the time, nothing happened. Nothing at all.

The rats only crawled out of their pits way after midnight. I'm sure that they couldn't stand the heat either. I was like them, in a way. Except for a couple of nocturnal trips to the speakeasy around the corner I hardly put a foot out of bed. The things you do for a spoonful of inedible stew and couple of glasses of moonshine!

I wasn't the only tight-lipped eccentric who frequented the speakeasy. Nobody knew or cared who I was or where I came from and I relished not having to talk to anyone.

The only time I had something that came close to an actual conversation was when I spoke to the barkeeper once, asking him which day it was. He didn't even look up. Concentrating on drying glasses with a stained dish cloth, he muttered hoarsely, "September 7th," in his coastal accent. His face looked around sixty years and most of his teeth were black or missing, but the upper part of his body was still bulky and solid enough to instill respect in the down-and-out clientele that frequented his bar. "1930," he added after a short pause, looking at me with a mixture of condescendence and indifference.

"Do you think I'm an imbecile?"

"No offense. Not all my customers would know," he said, holding up a glass against the miserable lamp above the bar to inspect it. And thus ended my longest chat in weeks.

There were times when I thought to myself 'What has become of me? I used to be on first name- basis with Senators, but now my only companions are fat, lazy cockroaches! I used to run one of the biggest companies in this country; now I spend my time watching the shadows on the wall grow shorter and then longer again, as the merciless sun travels by behind moldy window frames.' But the voice in my head grew weaker and weaker with every passing day. The glorious river _Lethe_ washed me clean of the disgrace of my past until I felt as if things had never been different for me.

All I wanted of life was for it to stay this simple until the end of my days.

But my prayers weren't answered.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Thanks to my reviewers for their thoughtful and encouraging feedback! Big Fan, I know I'm not the first person to tell you this, but I really think you should get an account. I'd love to send you a PM to thank you for your detailed reviews, but I cannot do that when there is no way for me to contact you! And last but not least, DreamUpAReality, thank you so much for your betaing skills and support!**


	3. An Unlikely Encounter

**Thanks to my beta, DreamUpAReality, for taking time out of her busy schedule to help me with this chapter!**

**An Unlikely Encounter**

Like I told you already, I used to spend most of my evenings and some of my nights in a nearby speakeasy, irrespective of the day of the week. But God, did I hate the Fridays! I hated them almost as much as the last day of the month when the workers got their paycheck and used it for nothing better than getting drunk out of their mind. And once they got drunk out of their mind, they were loud and obnoxious and violent. They'd start off innocently enough with singing vulgar songs off-key and after some more gin, it went south. You had to be on your guard on these days. On Fridays, it was almost as bad.

It was always with mixed feelings that I went to the speakeasy on Fridays and this one day was no exception. When I walked to my usual place at the bar, I threw a cautionary glance at the customers.

What I saw were men who had deep furrows in their faces and bad teeth. Some of them were gambling their few belongings in a card game; others were staring into their glasses with drunken stupor. Two men on the other side of the room looked like they were about to jump at each other's throats - they threw unintelligible insults at each other and gesticulated angrily, while their friends were trying to separate the two. I took care not to look at them too directly. The last thing I needed was being drawn into a fist fight. I've seen it happen before and I knew it happens quicker than you'd think. But besides the two of them and their slightly less drunken friends, the bar was filled with the usual (rather reserved) clientele. '_Fair enough! _'I thought.

At the bar, a few familiar faces nodded in silent greeting. We never exchanged more than a grunted "Hello," or a mumbled, "See you around," yet our shared silence spoke volumes.

The bulky bar owner– I have already described his looks, haven't I? - was taking orders from a middle-aged man with sunken, watery eyes who was sitting next to me. I cleared my throat and motioned for him to serve me next.

Then something odd happened. He nodded and took a step in my direction, but before he could take my order, his eyes were drawn to the entrance door on the far left sight of the room. The corners of his mouth dropped.

Curious, I turned around. Suddenly I realized that all the noise in the room had stopped; even the two disputers had fallen silent. Everybody's eyes were glued to the three people who had just entered.

It was like a Western movie cliché – only that the intruder was not a rugged villain and his grim henchmen, but three elegantly dressed woman. From where I sat at the far end of the bar I couldn't make out their faces very well. But despite the dim light and the smoke clouding my view I realized that they were also quite good looking.

"What is it? You thought ladies like us don't drink?" one them asked self-consciously and her friends replied with roaring laughter. Their drunken vulgarity stood in sharp contrast to their pretty faces. Apparently, this wasn't the first bar they had visited tonight. I shrugged and turned away from them to face the bar. For some reason, I was more annoyed than intrigued by these three.

Much to my dismay, they marched straight to the bar and then stood only a few feet away, with only the glassy-eyed old men in between them and me. They didn't seem to mind being the center of attention. Their happy giggles were an unpleasant ringing in my ear.

"What do you want to drink, Alice?" I heard one of them ask.

I turned to the side and got a glimpse of the girl she had spoken to, a beautiful young thing with bleach blonde hair and lips painted bright red. Almost despite myself, I had to admit that this clash of colors had quite an effect on me. She was alluring, almost like a siren. In any other part of the county I would have assumed she was a whore, but so close to Hollywood, actress seemed to be the more likely alternative.

The creature named Alice mumbled something I couldn't understand and then the other girl – a charming dark blond woman, almost one head taller than her friends - ordered, "A glass of gin for each of us."

"We don't offer drinks, here," the bartender replied gruffly.

"We beg your pardon, good sir," the bleach blond siren said, carefully pronouncing every syllable and giving her speech a snooty high-pitched tone, "but we believe you do."

The watery-eyed man next to me had shifted in a way that blocked my sight of her face, but I imagined her lips parting in a lovely smile. Naturally, I wasn't too impressed with her upper-class impersonation. It was enough to make her two friends laugh, though.

"Please don't spoil our fun!" the tall women begged, "Our good friend Alice here has just learned that she is going to play Helen of Troy in a moving picture!"

So she was an actress. And her friends were probably actresses, too. Just as I thought.

"Oh yes! Don't be so harsh with us on a gay occasion like this!" the third woman chipped in, joining the other two in her little game of pretending to be upper class. Broad laughter again. But something was different. This girl was not like her tipsy friends. There was something about her – I couldn't put my finger on it at first, but something didn't sound right to me.

Then it hit me like a ton of bricks. Her enunciation sounded _too_ right. _Too legitimate_.

I leaned forward on the bar as much as I could until I finally managed to catch a glimpse of the woman that had spoken last. How do I even begin to describe the feelings that welled up inside of me when I saw her again?

Her flaming red hair. Her pouty lips. Her very pale face.

I'll be God damned! She looked almost exactly like I remembered her. Only that it couldn't be her! It couldn't be! I turned away briskly before she could spot me as well. My heart missed a beat and then, as if suddenly remembering its function, started thundering in my ribcage.

_No, this couldn't be._ She died on the Titanic! She died after she refused to get on a life boat to stay with this worthless drifter! I swallowed hard, but the lump in my throat didn't go away. The room started spinning and the gin had little to do with it.

"Alright," the bartender said, tucking up his sleeves as if a giant task lay before him. "You'll have your drinks. Fine. But when you've finished, I want you to leave."

"That's a deal!" The three graces replied promptly.

Then I heard their glasses click, followed by a toast to Alice's bright future in the acting business. They downed their drinks in one shot. Alice choked. Some more laughter and friendly claps on her back. You get the idea. The barkeeper's moroseness seemed to only add to their glee.

Then they paid and practically danced out the bar. I couldn't help myself. I had to keep my eyes fixed on her as she went to the door. The longer I observed her mannerisms, even from behind, the harder it got to convince myself that she wasn't _her_. The elegant way she held herself, the lightness of her steps when she was in a good mood, the way her red curls were bouncing behind her back as she walked. Could it be true?

When they were out of the bar, a silent expression of awe still lingered on the men's faces the same way a strong perfume lingers in the air.

However, it took only one man to break the spell. "Well, I'll show you," came the voice from the one of the two wranglers, obviously slurring, and at once, the conversations in the room picked up again. I wished that I, too, could go back to the way I was before.

I started thinking. _My_ Rose was seventeen when I met her, so she would have celebrated her thirty-fifth birthday last May. The woman I had just seen looked like she was in her early thirties too.

Rose. I haven't thought of her in a long time. In the years after her "death" I used to regret that she didn't live long enough to turn my humiliation into victory, the day she would reappear at my doorstep, sick and scared likea pet gone astray and begging me for forgiveness. In these days, I often asked myself what I would have done if I discovered that she somehow – magically - survived the wreckage. Would my tender feelings for her have clouded my better judgment? Would I have married her despite everything she had done to me? Or would I have sent her away? At last, I fancied thinking that I would have made her my mistress and spoilt her as long as it pleased me to do so. This was certainly not what her dear mother had had in mind for her when she introduced me to her debutant daughter, but it would still be more than that unfaithful brat deserved. Of course, this option wasn't feasible any longer, as I was just as poor then as that hobo she had been so smitten with – _although for very different reasons!_

The barkeeper's raspy voice pulled me out of my reverie. "Cat got your tongue?" he asked, flashing me an ugly grin.

"Pardon me?"

"You wanted to tell me something before the three wenches came in."

"The usual."

He nodded and without further explanation needed, got me a glass of gin. I drank it. Was it only me or did it taste especially bad that day? I left the bar early.

My room was just a few feet away. I took a deep breath of the fresh, cool air outside; then I entered the apartment building. Most of the light bulbs in the corridors were burnt through and I had to blindly find my way up the pitch-black staircase. The house was filled with the putrid stink of sweat, cigarettes and old wallpaper, but by the time I reached the second floor I had already gotten used to the smell.

In my room, I opened the window to let the night air stream in. With a heavy sigh, I lay down on the bed, arms and legs outstretched to profit as much from the fresh breeze as possible. I hoped the cool air would help me put some order in the chaos of my thoughts.

I tried to convince myself for hours that her name was probably Bertha or Mary. Maybe she was a country girl who had received extraordinary vocal training. Maybe she used to work as a maid in a privileged household. Every explanation was more likely than her being the same woman that I have seen jumping back on a sinking ship!

"It was somebody else, it wasn't her. It was somebody else, it wasn't her..." I mumbled to myself in the darkness until the mantra lulled me to sleep.


	4. Before Dawn

**A/N:****A huge thank you to DreamUpAReality for beta-ing me again and to all my readers for their patience!******

**Before Dawn**

A few days later, one of my neighbors passed away. Or rather, I discovered his passing, for he must have been dead for some time already. He was an old Lebanese bachelor, so quiet and polite that if it wasn't for the whistling of his tea kettle that he used every day, I could hardly tell if he was at home or out.

But it wasn't the silence of his kettle that made me suspicious (it was only after they had carried him down the staircase, wrapped in a cloth like a dead seaman that I realized I hadn't heard him making tea in days).

It was the smell. The foul stink of decaying flesh that had come down on the whole floor like a heavy blanket.

After the source of my inconveniences was found and eliminated, I aired my room for almost six days. It was to no avail. The body was long gone, but the smell didn't go away. On the seventh day, I couldn't take it any longer. I grabbed my few belongings and left the apartment building with no intention of ever coming back.

The bright sunlight blinded me, disorienting me for a few seconds. The noises penetrated my ears like a sledgehammer. The streets I was used to find so calm and peaceful at night were bustling with activity.

People swarmed around me, busy to fulfill their daily routine, going where they needed to go. They were of the same species as me, spoke the same language even, yet I felt like an anthropologist who's lost his interpreter in the wilderness of Papua New Guinea. I wasn't used to crowds anymore.

Finally, I started walking with the flow, pressing to my chest all that I had left in this world – a jacket, a pair of socks and underwear, all hastily tucked into an old canvas bag.

Santa Monica used to be a booming city in the 1920s, attracting visitors from all over the country. Years ago, when I was still a rich man and things were going well for me, I read a magazine advertising about this city, its splendid beach promenade and of course the world famous Ferris Wheel on the pier.

A few blocks from my former apartment, the humble streets and houses changed into boulevards and magnificent residences. The city started to look more and more like what I've seen in the magazine. Palm trees lined up proudly against a clear blue sky, defying the talk about recession and crisis. But underneath, many construction sites looked abandoned, a few cafés and restaurants closed for an indefinite time. I registered this and even more. But my real attention was elsewhere.

I didn't realize it at first, but my eyes kept consistently searching the crowd for a glimpse of red hair. However, Rose's pretty face was nowhere to be seen.

I couldn't help but wish that I had been drunk the other night. Then I might have missed her and her friends in the bar, snoring with my head nestled in the crook of my arm. But I knew I hadn't been drunk, dreaming or hallucinating. No matter how much I wrecked my brain for a logical explanation, I never managed to convince myself that what I had seen was not what a deep recess in my soul so ardently believed it was.

Hours later, I wound up at the beach, within eyeshot of the famous pier. I arrived in time to watch the happy families that had spent their afternoon building sandcastles and splashing about in the warm Pacific water go home. Soon enough a new kind of people started to gather around the beach. The night owls have come out of their nests, then men dressed in evening suits and the ladies in tubular dresses.

The Ferris Wheel on the pier completed its last turns and then stood still. I too decided to take a rest.

I leaned my back against a pillar of the columned walk of the beach promenade and watched the street lamps going on, one by one. A young man in a black tuxedo strode along the edge of the pavement with a lady on his arm. She held a cigarette in her free hand and its orange glow danced beside her like a firefly. After they passed me by she flipped the stump to the side. Still burning, it landed on the sand. I picked it up to suck the last drag out of it.

'Was this really the hand that I've been dealt?' I thought as the smoke filled my lungs, 'Rotting away in the gutter while my ex fiancée lived a life of luxury as a Hollywood starlet?'

I threw away my cigarette and began strolling along the beach promenade. The pier beckoned with warm lights and cheerful chatter and I found myself drawn to it like a moth to the flame. I let my eyes wander aimlessly until they fell upon a curious little object, lying innocently on the wooden planks of the pier. A ten dollar bill.

I rushed to grab it and stuffed it into the pocket of my pants, taking a look to each side to make sure that no other hungry squirrel had seen the big nut I've found. In this precise moment and only a few feet from me, the door to one of the many bars alongside Santa Monica's greatest attraction opened up wide. I watched a group of men and women step through the fog of cigarette smoke, pent-up warmth and tunes of Swing music.

A bold idea sprang up in my head.

I spat in my hands and slicked back my hair, then straightened my clothes the best I could, not wanting to look like the poor devil that I was. My jacket used to look expensive once. Chances were that in the low light of the bar, I could still pass for a wealthy tourist. Of course, I couldn't take that ugly canvas bag with me, so I stored it behind the trashcans at the side of the bar.

Discreetly, I stuck my hand into my pocket, rubbing the bill between my thumb and index finger like an amulet. Sufficiently reassured, I marched into the bar.

Having been excluded from everything that is refined and luxurious for quite some time, I was thrilled at what I saw. It clearly was a much finer bar then the one I used to go to. The room was furnished with an appealing combination of dark and light wood panels. Everything looked new or at least newly polished and both options were just the same for me, at this point of my life. Polite conversations were floating through the air and a band was playing in the back of the room. Young women with feather boas laughed appropriately at their suitors' jokes and the slight exhilaration in their tones led me to suspect a hidden storage of moonshine somewhere near.

I felt someone's eyes on me and turned around to a man who was sitting at one of the tables, smoking a cigarette. He was dressed in clean grey dinner suit. "Care to join a game of poker, Sir?" he asked with a gaining smile and pulled a deck of cards of his breast pocket.

'Why not give it a shot?' thought I and nodded, the fresh new dollar bill in my pocket giving me all the confidence I needed.

"Marvelous!" he exclaimed and then turned around to the three men sitting beside him at the table. "Gentlemen, we have found a fifth player!"

He stubbed out his cigarette in an ashtray and motioned for me to take a seat. "I have to warn you, though," he joked, "I always win." The three other men chuckled lightly.

After a few minutes of polite small-talk, he started dealing the cards. His fingers were well-manicured and in a moment of unpleasant self-awareness, I prayed that no one would notice the dirt under my nails.

But these worries quickly subsided, the more I realized I was on a run of exceptionally good luck today. Player after player left the game with an annoyed growl. In the end it was only the man in the grey suit and me – and I bet him with a _four of a kind_.

You wouldn't believe the look on his face! I could tell he simply hated it to lose. However, he was quick to overplay his deception with faked nonchalance.

"Well played," he said with a smile that didn't reach his eyes.

But I didn't pay much attention to him or the other men. I was too busy counting the bills I just won. If my unwashed hands hadn't given away my social status by now, my current behavior surely did.

Not that I cared much about it! I was beside myself with joy. Who believes such luck? A mere thirty minutes ago, I had seriously considered sleeping under a bridge, now I had almost fifty dollars in my hands!

"It was a pleasure gambling with you tonight, gentlemen, but I'm afraid I have to leave you for now," I said, half-heartedly fighting back the mad grin that threatened to spoil my poised expression. "Good night," I added and whistling a tune I made up for the occasion, I left the bar and then the beach, only stopping to grab my bag. It felt just as good as having sealed a promising business deal or having seduced a beautiful lady, back in the days. I was filled with an exuberance I haven't experienced in ages.

I had already taken a turn for a more deserted part of town when it occurred to me that I had no idea where I was going. I remembered having had the vague plan to spend the night in a nice hotel, but this was certainly not the way leading me there. 'No problem,' I thought and turned with the intention of going back to the pier and asking one of the servants to call me a taxi.

You can imagine my surprise when I discovered my four poker buddies only a few yards behind me.

"What are you…Were you following me?"

The men exchanged looks, but the grey-suited man kept staring straight at my face. Like in the bar, it was him who did most of the talking. "We only want to have a conversation with you." He cleared his throat. "To be frank, Sir, my three friends here and I aren't satisfied with the way our game turned out, you know? We're in the midst of a recession, and nobody likes to lose that much money these days. We hoped you would understand."

"There is really nothing to discuss here," I replied, still boasting with confidence. "We played a fair game and I won. I'm sure you'll be lucky next time. Now get lost and mind your own business!"

His eyes became slits. "Well, aren't you a lucky son of a bitch," he said in a mocking tone. It was only now that the seriousness of the situation started to dawn on me. The night in a nice hotel suddenly became the last thing on my mind.

The man in the grey suit turned around to his friends. "I gave him the chance to negotiate, didn't I?" he asked.

They nodded in unison.

"He wouldn't listen," one of them said, trying hard to copy their leader's sardonic charm.

He turned back to me slowly. "You heard them," he said with an elaborated sigh, shrugging and lifting his hands like he wanted to say, 'I'm sorry but I don't have a choice.'

Then everything went by very fast.

I saw the leader's fist flying in my direction and somehow, I knew I didn't have enough time to duck it. The force of it threw my head back. No time to recover from the first blow. No time to run. I brought my arms up in front of my face to block the second attack. The canvas bundle I had carried all day fell to the ground and my attacker let go of me for a moment to kick it to the side.

Something warm and wet was dripping from my nose, oozing my shirt. I lightly touched my nose with my finger and then held my hand in front of my eyes, staring at the alien red substance with utter disbelief.

A punch in the stomach knocked all the wind out of me. I dubbed over, panting. Tiny lights were dancing before my eyes. Now more people were joining the assault on me. I wasn't even sure anymore who of them hit me, I tried to keep my head down.

When I saw the man in the grey suit approach me again, I took a step backwards, realizing too late that someone had put his foot behind mine to trip me.

I lost my balance and fell. My body landed on the concrete pavement with a thud. Then one of the attackers slammed his shoe into my face. I still remember that it wasn't laced properly. My scream intermingled with the cracking sounds of my nose and cheekbone breaking.

Suddenly, the beating stopped.

"I think he's had enough."

"And how!"

"Don't just stand there, you morons, search him!"

I felt cold hands rummaging through my clothes and pockets. My face was pulsating with a dull pain. I tried to say something, but the only sound that came out of my mouth was helpless gargling. My knocked-out teeth felt like marbles on my tongue. "Shut up!" I was told.

The last thing I registered was the blood on the pavement. I knew it was mine, but it didn't mean anything to me. I closed my eyes and tried to concentrate on breathing in and out, in and out, again and again.

Then everything went black.

**A/N: According to the inflation calculator**** I found, $10.00 in 1930 would be worth**** $127.43**** in today's currency. **


	5. Waking Up

**A/N: Here comes chapter 5. Sorry for the delay! Thanks to my readers for bearing with me and to DreamUpAReality for betaing!**

* * *

><p><strong>Waking Up<strong>

The next morning, I slowly drifted back to reality. I don't know why but even before I tried to open my eyes I knew I was in a place where I had never been before.

My right eye was swollen closed and the sight through the left one was blurry. Something pressed against the bridge of my nose and reached for it. The slight pressure of my index finger was enough to almost make me howl out in pain. I touched my nose again, even lighter this time, and realized that my nose was bandaged.

Then fragments of the last night entered my head. I remembered my 'lucky' poker game and its ugly aftermath, and figured that I must have been unconscious.

It took my battered body a considerable effort to lift myself up from the soft couch I was bedded on. Thankfully, my sight had now cleared enough for me to see that I was in a small room, painted in white. The large windows were opened and a light sea breeze was blowing in, making the light curtains move back and forth. Behind the glass, I could faintly see the blue gleam of the ocean.

The room was only sparsely furnished. The couch, a small table in front of it, and a simple chest of drawers. However, there were two other things in this room that stuck out to me. First, there was this peculiar chair formed of bent steel rods. The rods had straps of fabric attached to them, forming the seat base and the backrest. I had seen one of these in a magazine once, but never for real. The second thing that caught my eye was my pathetic bundle of possessions lying right next to the chair (and looking very out of place).

Someone must have taken pity on me. Someone in a very lucrative position. Someone with money... Instinctively, I put my hand on my shirt pocket. There was no bulge any more. The stack of money was gone. _God damn it to hell!_

Suddenly, there was a knock on the door. "Woken up yet? Can I come in?" A man's voice.

I startled, which caused me to groan in pain. Apparently, he took this for a 'yes' and the next thing I knew, I came to see Jack Dawson for the first time in 17 years.

"Hi there. How are you? Better yet?"

I considered pinching myself to check if I was still dreaming, but the pain in my head and body felt very real already.

"How... I... um... yes?"

"Great!"

Needless to say, I recognized him instantly. He still had that blond hair that was always falling into his eyes and the same look of brazenness on his face. I looked at his wrists, expecting them to still be handcuffed until I realized how asinine this idea was. The only noticeable thing about his hands was a small band of twisted metal on his fingers that looked like he had made it himself.

The ability to speak in complete sentences failed me for a minute. Instead, I felt a sudden impulse to break out in hysteric laughter. During quite some time, I had been thinking of Rose's survival as a solid fact, but the chance of _his_ survival had never even occurred to me!

Meanwhile, Jack moved the strange chair over to the couch, so he could sit next to me.

Studying his features at close range, I spotted small crow's feet around his eyes and a few beard stubbles on his chin and cheeks. He never appeared to me as one who could grow a real beard.

Was he the owner of this house? Would he wear a light cotton shirt and flannel trousers and slippers even if he wasn't? How many rooms did it have anyway? And where was Rose?

"Where... Where am I?" I croaked.

"Huh? We were talking about it yesterday. Don't you remember? When we went back from the hospital?"

I shook my head in honest confusion. I didn't remember talking to anyone yesterday, besides the people I met in the bar. Neither did I remember being at a hospital or following Jack to this house. I had assumed to have been unconscious until a few minutes ago.

"You don't remember anything? Well, in this case I should introduce myself." He smiled brightly, like this was his favorite part of every conversation. You could tell he enjoyed making new acquaintances. "My name is Jack." With a flourish, he reached out his hand to me. We shook hands. "Jack Dawson."

You don't say.

Then, for no apparent reason, he slapped his hand to his forehead. "I'm really sorry, but I seem to have forgotten your name!" He laughed heartily about his forgetfulness. "I'm really sorry, but what was your name again?"

I stared at him, perplexed. I took it from Jack's jovial tone that I couldn't have told him, 'My name is Caledon Hockley, former steel tycoon, nice to meet you, Sir. Say, haven't we met sometime?', because if I had, he would have hardly invited me to stay overnight, on this nice couch in this nice room.

But which name did I give him instead? I've been using a couple of fake names since I've been on the road. Which one of them did I tell him? I could take a wild guess, but what if one of them remembered what I had actually said last night? Could I blame it on the attack that I wasn't quite myself and accidentally gave them the wrong name? Or should I pretend to suffer from amnesia?

All these thoughts made my head ache even more than it already did.

"Oh, I know," he said. "It still hurts to talk right? I'm sorry."

Well, thank you very much, Jack! I nodded and twisted my face in pain to make it seem like he had read my thoughts.

"Carl Miller," came a woman's voice from the door, and a moment later, Rose appeared in the door frame, holding a pot of coffee in her hands. She smiled at me and then looked at Jack with a hint of loving reproach in her eyes.

I nodded as eagerly as my bruises permitted. Carl Miller. Well, that was a new creation. But why in God's name had I chosen a name that sounded so similar to my real given name?

"Well, alright, then, _Carl_," Jack suddenly said and clapped his hands, "Would you like some coffee? Or French toast, if you already feel like eating?"

I nodded again, hoping this could buy me some time alone, to sort out my jumbled thoughts. But it was only Jack who left, pressing his lips against Rose's as he passed her by in the door. I had assumed she would follow him along, but no, she sat down on the chair that Jack had just left.

"It looks odd, right?" she said cheerfully. "It's a _Wassily_ chair. I love the design. It just looks _impossible_; like there is no way in the world this could carry a person. But it does." She winked with her eye. "We bought it on a trip to Europe. My name is Rose Dawson, just in case you forgot my name as well."

I couldn't help staring at her hand. She wore the same type of ring on her finger as Jack. Her eyes were fixed on me and suddenly, her expression darkened.

"You must have had a horrible night," she stated simply. "How are you feeling?"

"Just brilliant."

"They messed you up badly. If I was in your place, I would be boiling with rage! You should definitely make a report at the police station..."

We were interrupted by Jack who entered the room with three plates of French toast that he expertly balanced on his forearm. In his hand were two steaming cups of coffee. "Here comes breakfast!" he said.

"My husband is an artist," Rose whispered to me, as if this scene needed any more explanation. I didn't miss how her eyes lighting up at the word _artist_. "Sometimes, he balances four color palettes on his arm."

Meanwhile, Jack placed the toasts and mugs on a small table and sat down on the armrest of the couch, as all other seats were occupied.

I seized the plate. Thankfully, my sense of smell wasn't fully impaired, despite the injuries and the bandage on my face.

The smell of eggs and butter filled my nostrils and I closed my eyes just to savor it. The process of food intake required all my attention. I ate very carefully, taking only tiny bites, that I kept in my mouth until they had lost all their taste and become soft and easy to swallow. Rose and Jack finished their breakfast long before me, of course, but they stayed at my side until I had emptied my plate as well.

"Where am I?"I asked again, putting down the plate.

Rose frowned. "You don't remember anything, do you?"

"What's the last thing you remember?" asked Jack.

"I was mugged... after the poker game," I replied with difficulty. "That's the last... thing I know."

Rose nodded. "We know. We were passing by the alley when we saw them attack you. We also heard that you were arguing about money. Don't worry about it. We know it wasn't you who started the fight. And we know that it was _your_ money they stole."

Jack added, "When I was a young man, I used to gamble with strangers quite often. It got me in sticky situations sometimes, but I've never been knocked down like you. Damned scumbags!"

I tried to be humorous. "One of them told me he... he never loses."

Jack smirked lopsidedly. "Funny, I was told the same thing a long time ago," he said, getting up from the couch. The memory clearly upset him; I could tell from the way his back and shoulder tensed. But when he turned back to me again, his look was filled with sympathy. _For me_. Jack Dawson was relating to my story personally.

Speechless, I looked from Rose to Jack and back to Rose. Were they mocking me? Did they really care for what would become of me? Did they really have no clue who they were talking to?

I'm not exaggerating when I say that the whole situation greatly puzzled me.

"What happened..." I began.

Jack explained, "Well, no way could we have put up a fight against four men at once, so we hurried to get help. When we came running back with three other men in tow a few minutes later, the men were already searching your clothes. When they saw us they took to their heels. The other men and I tried to catch up with them, but they were already two blocks ahead and I didn't want to leave Rose behind for too long, in case they decided to return..."

"All the while, I was kneeling next to you," Rose said. "Actually, the first thing I did was feel your pulse. You were lying there motionless, so I expected the worst. But you were unconscious for only a short time, thank God! You were looking awful though and when Jack and the others came back, you could barely walk, even when we assisted you..."

"At first you protested when we tried to help you up. The doctor told us you had a slight concussion and were under shock. That probably explains it..."

"You should go to the police!" Rose said. "We could testify as eye witnesses!"

Jack nodded acquiescently.

"We should all go as quickly as possible, "she insisted. "The earlier we go, the more likely the police will find the men who did this to you!"

"What else did the doctor tell you?" I asked.

"Your nose and cheekbone are broken, but apparently, it's not as bad as it looks. The doctor said that it's normal there was so much blood, because the tissue inside the nose is very vascular and sensitive," Rose explained.

"He also said you were lucky to get away without grave injuries," Jack added, "However..." He seemed hesitant about it - something you wouldn't expect from Jack. Not a good sign.

"What?"

The two of them exchanged worried looks.

"Your face..." Jack continued, "It will heal eventually, but it's going to cause you very much pain and...The doctor said it's difficult to make a solid prediction and that he could be wrong but... Well, he thinks that your nose and the right part of your face are probably never going to look again like they did before the attack."

I just stared at him, not knowing what to say. My mouth went dry and my tongue suddenly felt too big for my mouth.

"We're sorry." Rose laid her hand on my back in a gesture of support.

"I... drink..." I managed to stammer.

Jack instantly handed me the coffee mug. I used to like coffee. However, in this precise moment, looking into the black brew, my stomach started to contract achingly.

"Do you feel sick?" Rose asked after seeing me startle. "It's a typical concussion symptom. Don't worry; I'll get you a bucket, just to be on the safe side."

But I didn't have time to wait for that bucket. I jumped up from the couch, ignoring the pain that shot through me like an electric shock with every movement.

I stumbled to the door, almost jostling Rose from her chair. After ripping the door open, I found myself in a vestibule with a staircase. Too many doors to try and not enough time. I pressed my hand to my mouth in futile attempt to suppress the gagging.

From the corner of my eyes, I noticed a pair of waist-high ornate vases standing next to the staircase on a small platform; like museum pieces on display. I bet they had cost a fortune, but what would you have done in my shoes?

From the corner of my eyes, I saw Jack and Rose watch me in shock while I emptied the contents of my stomach into one of the precious objects.


End file.
